Description
It was an early Friday morning in the late summer of Twelve Forty-seven. You had journeyed through the night and when you clambered down from the carriage you greeted me with porcupine odor. The result you informed me of the coachman's maneuver to avoid a prickle of porcupines. His effort had been unsuccessful and the outcome for the porcupines had not been glamorous. But the sun was out and the air was clear and we had the entire hour to ourselves. Without delay I commissioned a courier to transport the wood shavings. Then, as the sunlight suffused our immortal souls you raised the thorny issue of the surgery I had advocated to alter the dimensions of your feet. When I conveyed I was no longer perturbed by them you bristled and got all uppity. You inhaled deep the cool clean air and resplendent were the butterflies, the bees.
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